CHAPTER XXIX.
A MOTHER'S LOVE.
As we have said, Madame Guillois was installed by her son at the wintervillage of the Comanches, and the Indians gladly welcomed the mother ofthe adopted son of their tribe. The most commodious lodge wasimmediately placed at her service, and the most delicate attentions werelavished on her.
The redskins are incontestably superior to the whites in all thatrelates to hospitality. A guest is sacred to them to such an extent,that they become his slaves, so to speak, so anxious are they to satisfyall his desires, and even his slightest caprices.
After Father Seraphin had warned Red Cedar to be on his guard, hereturned to Madame Guillois in order to watch more directly over it. Theworthy missionary was an old acquaintance and friend of the Comanches,to whom he had been useful on several occasions, and who respected inhim not the priest, whose sublime mission they could not understand, butthe good and generous man, ever ready to devote himself to his fellowmen.
Several weeks passed without producing any great change in the oldlady's life. Sunbeam, on her own private authority, had constitutedherself her handmaiden, amusing her with her medley of Indian-Spanishand French, attending to her like a mother, and trying, by all the meansin her power, to help her to kill time. So long as Father Seraphinremained near her, Madame Guillois endured her son's absence verypatiently. The missionary's gentle and paternal exhortations madeher--not forget, because a mother never does that--but deceive herselfas to the cruelty of this separation.
Unhappily, Father Seraphin had imperious duties to attend to which hecould no longer neglect; to her great regret he must recommence hiswandering life, and his mission of self-denial and suffering, whilecarrying to the Indian tribes, the light of the gospel, and the succourof religion. Father Seraphin was in Madame Guillois's sight a link ofthe chain that attached her to her son; she could speak about him withthe missionary, who knew the most secret thoughts of her heart, andcould by one word calm her alarm, and restore her courage. But when heleft her for the first time since her arrival in America, she reallyfelt alone, and lost her son once again, as it were. Thus the separationwas cruel; and she needed all her Christian resignation and long habitof suffering to bear meekly the fresh blow that struck her.
Indian life is very dull and monotonous, especially in winter, in theheart of the forest, in badly built huts, open to all the winds, whenthe leafless trees are covered with hoar-frost; the villages are halfburied beneath the snow, the sky is gloomy, and during the long nightsthe hurricane may be heard howling, and a deluge of rain falling.
Alone, deprived of a friend in whose bosom she could deposit theoverflowing of her heart, Madame Guillois gradually fell into a gloomymelancholy, from which nothing could arouse her. A woman of the age ofthe hunter's mother does not easily break through all her habits toundertake a journey like that she had made across the American desert.However simple and frugal the life of a certain class of society may bein Europe, they still enjoy a certain relative comfort, far superior towhat they may expect to find in Indian villages, where objects ofprimary necessity are absent, and life is reduced to its simplestexpression.
Thus, for instance, a person accustomed to work in the evening in acomfortable chair, in the chimney corner, by the light of a lamp, in awell-closed room, would never grow used to sit on the beaten ground,crouching over a fire, whose smoke blinds her, in a windowless hut, onlyillumined by the flickering flame of a smoky torch.
When Madame Guillois left Havre, she had only one object, one desire, tosee her son again; every other consideration must yield to that: shegladly sacrificed the comfort she enjoyed to find the son whom shebelieved she had lost, and who filled her heart.
Still, in spite of her powerful constitution and the masculine energy ofher character, when she had endured the fatigue of a three months'voyage, and the no less rude toil of several weeks' travelling throughforests and over prairies, sleeping in the open air, her health hadgradually broken down, her strength was worn out in this daily andhourly struggle, and wounded, both physically and morally, she had beenat length forced to confess herself beaten, and to allow that she wastoo weak to endure such an existence longer.
She grew thin and haggard visibly; her cheeks were sunken, her eyesburied more and more deeply in their orbits, her face was pale, her looklanguishing--in short, all the symptoms revealed that the nature whichhad hitherto so valiantly resisted, was rapidly giving way, and wasundermined by an illness which had been secretly wasting her for a longtime, and now displayed itself in its fell proportions.
Madame Guillois did not deceive herself as to her condition, shecalculated coolly and exactly all the probable incidents, followed stepby step the different phases of her illness, and when Sunbeam anxiouslyenquired what was the matter with her, and what she suffered from, sheanswered her with that calm and heart-breaking smile which the mancondemned to death puts on when no hope is left him--a smile moreaffecting than a sob--
"It is nothing, my child,--I am dying."
These words were uttered with so strange an accent of gentleness andresignation that the young Indian felt her eyes fill with tears, and hidherself to weep.
One morning a bright sun shone on the village, the sky was blue, and theair mild. Madame Guillois, seated in front of her calli, was warmingherself in this last smile of autumn, while mechanically watching theyellow leaves, which a light breeze turned round. Not far from her thechildren were sporting, chasing each other with merry bursts oflaughter. Unicorn's squaw presently sat down by the old lady's side,took her hand, and looked at her sympathisingly.
"Does my mother feel better?" she asked her in her voice which was softas the note of the Mexican nightingale.
"Thanks, my dear little one," the old lady answered, affectionately, "Iam better."
"That is well," Sunbeam replied, with a charming smile; "for I have goodnews to tell my mother."
"Good news?" she said, hurriedly, as she gave her a piercing glance;"has my son arrived?"
"My mother would have seen him before this," the squaw said, with atinge of gentle reproach in her voice.
"That is true," she muttered; "my poor Valentine!"
She let her head sink sadly on her bosom. Sunbeam looked at her for amoment with an expression of tender pity.
"Does not my mother wish to hear the news I have to tell her?" she wenton.
Madame Guillois sighed.
"Speak, my child," she said.
"One of the great warriors of the tribe has just entered the village,"the young woman continued; "Spider left the chief two days ago."
"Ah!" the old lady said, carelessly, seeing that Sunbeam stopped; "andwhere is the chief at this moment?"
"Spider says that Unicorn is in the mountains, with his warriors; he hasseen Koutonepi."
"He has seen my son?" Madame Guillois exclaimed.
"He has seen him," Sunbeam repeated; "the hunter is pursuing Red Cedarwith his friends."
"And--he is not wounded?" she asked anxiously.
The young Indian pouted her lips.
"Red Cedar is a dog and cowardly old woman," she said; "his arm is notstrong enough, or his eye sure enough to wound the great pale hunter.Koutonepi is a terrible warrior, he despises the barkings of thecoyote."
Madame Guillois had lived long enough among the Indians to understandtheir figurative expressions; she gratefully pressed the young squaw'shand.
"Your great warrior has seen my son?" she said eagerly.
"Yes," Sunbeam quickly answered, "Spider saw the pale hunter, and spoke.Koutonepi gave him a necklace for my mother."
"A necklace?" she repeated, in surprise, not understanding what thewoman meant; "What am I to do with it?"
Sunbeam's face assumed a serious expression.
"The white men are great sorcerers," she said, "they know how to makepowerful medicines; by figures traced on birch bark communicate theirthoughts at great distances; space does not exist for them. Will not mymother receive the necklace her son s
ends her?"
"Give it me, my dear child," she eagerly answered; "everything thatcomes from him is precious to me."
The young squaw drew from under her striped calico dress a square pieceof bark of the size of her hand, and gave it to her. Madame Guilloistook it curiously, not knowing what this present meant. She turned itover and over, while Sunbeam watched her attentively. All at once theold lady's features brightened, and she uttered a cry of joy; she hadperceived a few words traced on the inside of the bark with the point ofa knife.
"Is my mother satisfied?" Sunbeam asked.
"Oh, yes," she answered.
She eagerly perused the note; it was short, contained indeed but a fewwords, yet they filled the mother with delight; for they gave hercertain news of her son. This is what Valentine wrote--
"My dear mother, be of good cheer, my health is excellent, I shall seeyou soon: your loving son, Valentine."
It was impossible to write a more laconic letter; but on the desert,where communication is so difficult, a son may be thanked for givingnews of himself, if only in a word. Madame Guillois was delighted, andwhen she had read the note again, she turned to the young squaw.
"Is Spider a chief?" she asked.
"Spider is one of the great warriors of the tribe," Sunbeam answeredproudly; "Unicorn places great confidence in him."
"Good; I understand. He has come here on a particular mission?"
"Unicorn ordered his friend to choose twenty picked warriors from thetribe, and lead them to him."
A sudden idea crossed Madame Guillois's mind.
"Does Sunbeam love me?" she asked her.
"I love my mother," the squaw replied, feelingly; "her son saved mylife."
"Does not my daughter feel grieved at being away from her husband?" theold lady continued.
"Unicorn is a great chief; when he commands, Sunbeam bows and obeyswithout a murmur; the warrior is the strong and courageous eagle, thesquaw is the timid dove."
There was a long silence, which Sunbeam at last broke by saying, with ameaning smile--
"My mother had something to ask of me?"
"What use is it, dear child?" she answered hesitatingly, "As you willnot grant my request."
"My mother thinks so, but is not sure," she said, maliciously.
The old lady smiled.
"Have you guessed, then, what I was about to ask of you?" she said.
"Perhaps so; my mother will explain, so that I may see whether I wasmistaken."
"No, it is useless; I know that my daughter will refuse."
Sunbeam broke into a fresh and joyous laugh as she clapped her littlehands.
"My mother knows the contrary," she said; "why does she not placeconfidence in me? Has she ever found me unkind?"
"Never; you have always been kind and attentive to me, trying to calm mygrief, and dissipate my fears."
"My mother can speak then, as the ears of a friend are open," Sunbeamsaid to her quietly.
"In truth," the old lady remarked, after some thought, "what I desire isjust. Is Sunbeam a mother?" she said, meaningly.
"Yes," she quickly replied.
"Does my daughter love her child?"
The Indian looked at her in surprise.
"Are there mothers in the great island of the whites who do not lovetheir child?" she asked; "My child is myself, is it not my flesh andblood? What is there dearer to a mother than her child?"
"Nothing, that is true." Madame Guillois sighed. "If my daughter wereseparated from her child, what Would she do?"
"What would I do?" the Indian exclaimed, with a flash in her black eye;"I would go and join him, no matter when, no matter how."
"Good," the old lady remarked, eagerly; "I, too, love my child, and mydaughter knows it. Well, I wish to join him, for my heart is laceratedat the thought of remaining any longer away from him."
"I know it, that is natural, it cannot be opposed. The flower fades whenseparated from the stem, the mother suffers when away from the son shenourished with her milk. What does my mother wish to do?"
"Alas! I wish to start as soon as possible to embrace my son."
"That is right: I will help my mother."
"What shall I do?"
"That is my business. Spider is about to assemble the council in orderto explain his mission to the chiefs. Many of our young men arescattered through the forest, setting traps and hunting the elk tosupport their family. Spider will want two days to collect the warriorshe needs, and he will not start till the third day. My mother can be atrest; I will speak to Spider, and in three days we will set out."
She embraced the old lady, who tenderly responded, then rose and wentaway, after giving her a final sign of encouragement. Madame Guilloisreturned to her calli, her heart relieved of a heavy weight; for a longtime she had not felt so happy. She forgot her sufferings and the sharppangs of illness that undermined her, in order to think only of theapproaching moment when she would embrace her son.
All happened as Sunbeam had foreseen. An hour later, the hachestoconvened the chiefs to the great medicine lodge. The council lasted along time, and was prolonged to the end of the day. Spider's demand wasgranted, and twenty warriors were selected to go and join the sachem ofthe tribe. But, as the squaw had foretold, most of the warriors wereabsent, and their return had to be awaited.
During the two succeeding days Sunbeam held frequent conferences withSpider, but did not exchange a word with Madame Guillois, contentingherself, when the mother's glance became too inquiring, by laying herfinger on her lip with a smile. The poor lady sustained by factitiousstrength, a prey to a burning fever, sadly counted the hours whileforming the most ardent vows for the success of her plan. At length, onthe evening of the second day, Sunbeam, who had hitherto seemed to avoidthe old lady, boldly approached her.
"Well?" the mother asked.
"We are going."
"When?"
"Tomorrow, at daybreak."
"Has Spider pledged his word to my daughter?"
"He has; so my mother will hold herself in readiness to start."
"I am so now."
The Indian woman smiled.
"No, tomorrow."
At daybreak, as was agreed on the previous evening, Madame Guillois andSunbeam set out under the escort of Spider and his twenty warriors tojoin Unicorn.